


You are the softest part of the morning

by angelichl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Happy Ending, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Masochism, Non-Graphic Violence, Scars, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sub Louis, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 07:13:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12859476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelichl/pseuds/angelichl
Summary: In which Harry finds out Louis self-harms.





	You are the softest part of the morning

**Author's Note:**

> Hey loves,
> 
> As a warning this deals with some pretty heavy topics, including masochism/self-harm and intense self-loathing. If you have any questions about the content or anything in general prior to reading please do not hesitate to [come talk to me.](https://angelichl.tumblr.com/ask)
> 
> Also, this has a happy ending as promised.
> 
> Much love,
> 
>  
> 
> [Adri](https://angelichl.tumblr.com)

I want to be open for you  
Like the moonflower at dusk,  
pale and luminescent  
in the heat.

Like the doors of a church  
carved into something forgiving -  
I want to be a place for you to rest.

Honey,  
please listen when I tell you this.

Love is safe.

Do you hear me?  
I’ve put all the pain away.  
Everything sharp is wrapped up.  
Everything loud is hushed.

Love is the wind that makes the leaves dance.

You are the softest part of the morning.

 

—Emery Allen

 

 

 

It happened like this: Louis and Harry had been friends and nothing more. Even that within itself was strange, seeing as they acted more like lovers than most lovers acted. They were undeniably intimate, so close to each other in every which way, and it had gotten to the point where Harry really just could not imagine his life without Louis.

 

Then one night Louis was drunk and Harry was horny and they were sharing a hotel room because that’s what friends do, right? And it shouldn’t have been a problem, but oh, it _was_.

 

Because somehow they were sitting on the grand bed, drunk and half naked and wanting, desperate. They had spent all night flirting, discussing topics they shouldn’t discuss, like sexual preferences for example. And somehow Louis spilled about his submissive nature in the bedroom and everything spiraled downhill because it turned out to be more than submissiveness.

 

It was self harm in a diluted form, Louis putting himself in dangerous situations on purpose. Because he felt like he deserved it. Right.

 

That's what it was. There was something about it, something about the pain, something about thinking  _I deserve this_ , about accepting the sting and the burn and the blood. Something about asking for the punishment, seeking it out, and begging for it. Something that made the torture special, made it scary, made it dark.

 

Louis could've been a masochist, he asked for this so often. All of it—the biting, the spanking, the clawing, the hair pulling—was just another act of the retribution he yearned for, but the vengeance was incomparable to how he punished himself on his own, when the world was quiet and no one was looking. The sex was great but his masochistic kinks were minor details compared to the agony he pursued when he was alone.

 

There was cutting. There was burning. There was starving. All because he was desperately searching for penance, and no punishment was ever enough to fulfill that driving need for suffering. He wanted more. He deserved more.

 

What was most disturbing to Harry was not the particularly gruesome and gut-wrenching nature of the torment Louis actively sought out for himself, but instead the notion he held that  _he deserved it_. Pain is only pain until you believe it  _belongs_  to you. The thought was most horrifying in itself, in the way his drive towards masochism manifested itself within him. Tell a man he's worthless enough, and he might start to believe it. Tell a man he's worthless enough . . . and he might try to tear himself apart.

 

That's what scared Harry the most. The fact that Louis had asked for pain and his previous partners had obliged. His partners had obliged, maybe even found some sort of sadism in it, even when Louis' skin was clearly littered with scars and bruises and blemishes that could be nothing but obvious self harm. That's what made Harry feel sick to his stomach, sick enough that it kept him up at night.

 

How could anyone stand to look at Louis stripped and bare, the pain of his past blaring through to the present like an unmistakable blinding light, and still blunder on, kissing and touching and fucking like nothing was wrong, like it was totally normal for him to have the word  _WORTHLESS_  carved in sharp, biting, bright red letters on the inside of his thigh?

 

 

 

"Baby," Harry breathed, and it was sick, so so sick. He couldn't imagine it. Couldn't fathom it. "Baby, I can't do that," and his voice was helpless and scared and small, soft soft soft.

 

But Louis was asking for it. He had been asking for it, for sex, hard and ruthless, relentless. He wanted Harry inside him, and he wanted it hard and fast, he wanted no warning, he wanted it as rough as it could come, scratching with claws and raised red lines and biting and smacking. More than anything, he wanted Harry's heavy hand on his neck, fingers curled around his throat, squeezing until he gasped for breath.

 

Louis wanted pain. Louis wanted torture.

 

"C'mon H, please," he pleaded, through gritted teeth, grabbing for Harry desperately.

 

But Harry pulled away. He was not having any of it. No, none of it at all. "Baby, no . . ." Firmer now, voice stronger and more definite. "I can't. I can't do that to you."

 

"Harry," he groaned, whined, pleaded, lifting himself off the bed, eager to close the wide gap between him and Harry. But Harry backed away even further, two steps for every one of Louis'. "But I want it . . . I'm  _asking_  for it."

 

"No baby," shaking his head. In his fear, the arousal he had previously experienced now completely melted away. All he felt now was red hot panic. "I can't. I won't."

 

Louis' big round eyes were glistening black in the moonlight, lust-filled and frantic and sad. The tears started to spill. "You don't . . . want me?"

 

"Honey," Harry whispered, feeling as desperate as Louis looked, leaning against the edge of the bed, naked and exposed and helpless. "No, it's not that, I want you, I just- I can't hurt you. You have to understand. I can’t hurt you."

 

"Why not?"

 

And what kind of question was that? Harry couldn't fathom how Louis didn't understand. He struggled for the right words. "Baby, I can't hurt you. I don't want to hurt you. I wanna make you feel  _good_ , not bad." Like spelling it out for a child, desperate to get him to understand.

 

"But you will! You will make me feel good."

 

Harry shook his head, eyes still wide and scared. "No, I won't hurt you. Never."

 

Louis’ tears started falling heavily, trailing down his face like raindrops. The tributaries created looked like contrails in the sky, and they glistened in the moonlight streaming in from the window. Louis pawed at them, hysterical and frantic to stop crying, digging the heels of his palms over his eyelids restlessly. He shook his head back and forth, shaking. Mumbling and chanting to himself, "you don't want me, you don't want me. I knew this was a bad idea. I shouldn't have- I shouldn't . . . You don't want me."

 

Harry didn't know what to do. He pressed himself flat against the wall and watched in silent panic as Louis completely broke down, combusted like a star that had been burning too bright for too long, scrambling to pull his clothes back on. He fumbled around hastily. When his jeans were up and over his hips, Harry found himself able to breathe a little easier. The red word _worthless_  had been scaring him most of all, and once it was out of sight Harry pried himself off the wall, distressed and anguished but needing to do something—anything.

 

He stepped forward and attempted to place his hand on Louis' shoulder, or maybe even to wrap his arms around the smaller boy. But he didn't get that far—Louis had shoved his hand away and scrambled backwards on the bed, upset and distraught. He pulled his shirt over his head quickly, struggling to get his arms through the right holes, and once it was on he flung himself off the bed and towards the door, nearly running.

 

Harry panicked. All that was going through his head was that he couldn't let Louis leave, not right now—not like this. Not when Louis was bound to do something completely reckless and endangering. Harry threw himself towards Louis, wrapped his arms around his thin waist and yanked him away from the door. He maneuvered around until the doorknob was digging into his back, effectively preventing Louis from escaping.

 

"You can't leave," he pleaded, and this time it was Harry who sounded hysterical. His blood was pumping heavy and hot through his veins, blood pressure probably through the roof. How had the beautiful night turned into this? "Please, let's just go to sleep or something,  _anything_."

 

"Let me  _out_ , Harry, I have to  _go_."

 

Harry didn't move from his spot in front of the door. "Louis, please, no, please please please don't- Please . . . Don't do this."

 

Louis let out a tiny, angry shriek and took matters into his own hands, trying to pry Harry away, but it didn't work; he wasn't strong enough. Harry stayed rooted in place. They stared at each other with strong eyes, neither of them relenting.

 

"Why didn't you tell me things were like this?" Harry whispered.

 

Louis' eyes blazed. He was in hysteria. "Tell you things were like  _what_ , Harry? I thought you would be more goddamn accepting. I thought you wouldn't judge me. But I was wrong."

 

Harry's breath caught in his throat. Louis thought that Harry was reacting this way just because of Louis' sexual desires. But that wasn't true—Harry could deal with his kinks. He couldn't deal with the self harm. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperated, heart pounding, trying to calm down. "I'm not talking about what you want in bed, I don't care about that, you know I'm fine with anything-"

 

"Then why didn't you do what I asked? If you're fine with anything why didn't you do what I asked?"

 

Harry shook his head and blundered through. "I'm fine with whatever you want but I'm not fine with-" he paused and sucked in a deep, deep breath. "I am  _not_  fine with what you're doing to yourself. I'm not fine with your self harm."

 

" _What_  are you  _talking_  about?"

 

Oh God, did he really not see it? Harry visibly shuddered, and then he was crying for real, hot hot tears spilling from his eyes no matter how hard he tried to stop them. "Baby, your thighs, your hips, all the scars! The scars . . . I can't believe you did that to yourself . . . I can't believe you didn't tell me . . ."

 

That wasn't completely true—Harry did understand why Louis didn't tell him. In fact, what was Louis supposed to say?  _Hey Harry, love, I just hid myself away in the bathroom and tore apart my skin with a safety pin. Don't worry, I cleaned up all the blood. Anyway, what's for dinner?_

 

But what he didn't understand was how this could go on for so long without any of the boys noticing. That was the real mystery. How could Louis do this to himself one moment and then turn around and act completely fine the next? How? It didn't make sense. It didn't seem possible.

 

Louis lost it. His eyes blazed as if they had been set on fire, palms clenched tightly, teeth bared like a wolf's. "Let me out."

 

"No, Lou please we can talk about this, we can work it out, just please don't leave-" and Harry was crying just as hysterically as Louis was, emotions high and exacerbated and extremely volatile, tears falling like pouring rain, although they were uncomfortably hot and full of pain. "Please baby, please don't do this-"

 

Louis was clawing at himself, at his t-shirt, at his skin, at his eyes, scrubbing away the tears but new ones kept replacing the old. He gave up and lunged for the door again, this time with enough force to knock Harry out of the way. Harry caught his wrists and kept him from the doorknob, and that was a bad move because that was when Louis started screaming.

 

The sound was torturous, because it was the sound of Louis being tortured. Harry's heart leapt out of his chest before sinking down down down, and as he listened to Louis' screams, the dissonance caused Harry's heart to  _shatter_. Broken shards, everywhere.

 

"Harry, let me out! Let. Me.  _OUT_." And he yanked a hand free and pounded on the door, sobbing and howling and screaming bloody murder.

 

In a minute, someone in another room would hear and call the cops, and Harry would get in big, big trouble for holding a person against his will. Harry had no choice but to reluctantly let go of Louis' hands and slide away from the door. Anything to get the wailing to stop.

 

Well, Louis threw the door open and escaped, still a sobbing mess. Harry stood there, stunned, for a moment too long. When he peered out into the hallway, Louis was gone.

 

Oh God. The panic he felt when Louis had been in the room only intensified when he was gone. It suffocated him, sat on his chest like a ton of metal, wrapped around his neck like a noose. His hands were shaking, his heart was racing. He couldn't breathe.

 

Was he having a panic attack? Harry couldn't tell, couldn't think straight enough to consider if he was having one or not. He stumbled out into the hall, not sure what to do, not sure how to breathe. He stood with his hands on his knees, shuddered and shallow breaths wracking his body. Stars danced in his vision and then everything darkened; his eyes couldn't focus and he couldn't see a thing. It felt like the world was collapsing around him.

 

God, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. What was he supposed to do?

 

It didn’t matter what he was supposed to do. In fact, Harry didn’t do anything except slump down against the door, crumbling into himself as he exploded into pathetic, blubbering hysterics.

 

He cried the rest of the night, and woke up to a Louis-less hotel room with broken, dreary sunshine filtering in through the veiled blinds.

 

 

 

 

 

Once he was up, he searched relentlessly for Louis, until he finally found him curled up beneath Liam’s arm, on the bed of Liam’s hotel room.

 

Harry ignored the white-hot jealousy that bled through his veins at the sight of his bandmates so close together, and decided instead to be grateful to Liam for taking care of Louis. Gently, with a careful hand on Louis’ jumper-clad shoulder, he woke him.

 

“I’m sorry about last night,” Harry whispered immediately, as soon as Louis opened his eyes. “We need to talk.”

 

“Let me sleep,” Louis grumbled, turning away from him and burying his face in the duvet.

 

“Lou…”

 

Louis complained a lot more, flipping Harry off and nearly clinging to the bed, but eventually he got up and followed Harry back to their shared hotel room. They shuffled to the balcony and settled outside, beneath the rising sun. Louis looked sleepy and annoyed, yes, but the deeper exhaustion was there too—an exhaustion that sleep couldn’t cure.

 

Harry felt the same way.

 

 

 

 

 

They had a lot to talk about—that much was certain. And they did. Beneath the golden red light of the rising sun, they talked. Cracking themselves open and spilling out their insides, whispering truths into the still morning air, letting their shadows come out to play. As they talked and listened, they also learned. They also loved.

 

It wasn’t ideal. Louis was hurting himself and Harry knew it was wrong to expect him to stop anytime soon, especially without help. He couldn’t understand it—why Louis did it, why he did any of it. But he could try. He could try, and he could listen, and he could be by Louis’ side through thick and thin because that’s what friends did.

 

“Tell me why,” Harry had pressed, voice just a whisper barely heard over the wind. He grasped Louis’ smaller, daintier palms and marveled in the way that they were encompassed by his own.

 

 _Tell me why_ , Harry had asked, but Louis had no answer. He could not explain the feeling. The primal feeling, the innate feeling, the one that told him to dig deep into his skin with a knife. The only that told him to step closer and closer to the edge each time, just to see if he would fall.

 

Louis couldn’t verbalize it and Harry couldn’t understand it. The reason had something to do with the deep self-loathing Louis had grown accustomed to, but even that had no explanation. There was no rationalization for the way Louis felt about with himself.

 

Harry could only hope these feelings changed with time.

 

 

 

 

 

Of course, they did. As time runs on, feelings change, and morph into one or another. In infinity, nothing remains the same.

 

But change takes time.

 

 

 

 

 

Love is important to recovery, but not from other people.

 

It’s love from the self that has the power to change.

 

Louis is trying to learn this. It isn’t easy.

 

Yet, it isn’t impossible either.

 

 

 

 

 

As winter brought cold and hatred, spring brings rebirth in the simplest forms.

 

First, the realization that harming his body does nothing but hurt a physical entity that is ultimately unrelated to who he is as a person. His body never did anything wrong, so why is he cutting into it with a razor? It doesn’t make sense. So he tries to stop.

 

Second, the recognition that, while harming his body doesn’t reach the dark depths of his mind that he really wants to destroy with the knife in his hands, it does hurt the people around him. The people he loves. People like Harry. So he tries to stop.

 

Last, the illumination that a life filled with loathing is not a life at all. He’d rather be dull than vitriolic, so much that he’d take the boredom of staring at a wall over the danger of triggering insights any day. No feelings are better than bad feelings. So he tries to stop.

 

Does he stop harming himself?

 

The answer is yes. And… no.

 

 

 

 

 

“I love you.” A kiss pressed to the bow of his cheek, soft and lovely.

 

“That doesn’t change anything.”

 

“I know, baby. I’m just telling you.”

 

 

 

 

 

Harry’s love doesn’t change anything, but it does give him an incentive.

 

So maybe, ten years down the road, they’re happy.

 

Maybe it’s early morning and they’re curled up together in bed, drinking in that golden, red, morning light. And maybe it’s quiet and maybe Louis is still sad, and maybe he’s not.

 

Maybe it’s ten years down the road, and this is all a distant memory.

 

 

 

 

 

(And maybe _maybe_ turns into certainly.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Leave a comment if you'd like, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this <3
> 
> [Reblog the fic post](http://angelichl.tumblr.com/post/168033486934/lunary-love-by-angelichl-louis-overhears-his)
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr](https://angelichl.tumblr.com)


End file.
